


[Insert a Pun About Tarts]

by r_hirta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I did, M/M, Sorry Mary, This is, ah did someone order a crack fic with a side of clotted cream?, oh right me, plus ah, there are definitely a lot of dick jokes, this is certainly something!, what kind of something is still unclear!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_hirta/pseuds/r_hirta
Summary: “Still, what’s Malfoy doing inviting a bunch of muggles to the Manor? What’s Malfoy doing inviting a bunch of muggles anywhere?” Harry has to ask, “Why would he even want them around?”Kingsley doesn’t even bother with a sigh or a scowl this time, just shrugs, already reading through another case file. “From what I understand he just loves The Bake Off. Everyone loves The Bake Off.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 199





	[Insert a Pun About Tarts]

**Author's Note:**

> Work has been slow so I did my part FIGHTING CAPITALISM by using my down time to write this. Very rebellious and sexy of me, honestly. 
> 
> Rated for just a shameless amount of peen jokes and some implied ~~~stuff~~~. Again, sorry Mary. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“A cooking show?” Harry asks, wondering if he’s heard wrong. “What, like on the tv?” 

“Not cooking - baking,” Kinglsey corrects him, as if the distinction should be obvious. “A baking show.”

“What’s the difference?” It’s all pots and bowls and heating things up, innit? Tomato, warm tomato.

Kingsley ignores him, continuing on, “And not just a baking show, _ the _ baking show - it’s The Bake Off.” 

“Why do you say that like I’m supposed to know what it means?” 

Kingsley’s smooth forehead pulls itself into delicate furrows. “You don’t watch The Bake Off? Everyone watches The Bake Off.”

“Clearly not, as I’ve never even heard of it.” 

“Really? That’s very odd. Do you not have a teleprompter?”

“Television.” 

“Yes that - do you not have one?” 

“Of course I have one, everyone has one, I’ve just never - look, I think we’re getting off topic. You said something about Malfoy inviting a bunch of muggles to film something at the Manor?” 

Kingsley nods. “Right - it appears that he’s renting the grounds out as the location for this season’s tent.”

“Tent?”

“Yes,  _ the _ tent - The Bake Off tent. You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Mary Berry?”

“A merry berry? What’s so happy about it? That a nickname for some kind of drug?”

Kingsley sighs in a very beleaguered way that Harry can’t help but think is laying it on a bit thick. 

So he’s never heard of ‘The Baking Off,’ so what? He isn’t an idiot just ‘cause he’s not keen on a reality program about what, bread? Is it bread? The man’s acting as if Harry had never heard of the Queen. 

Her name is Liz, thank you very much. 

“Anyway, the assignment isn’t very involved,” Kingsley goes on, shuffling a small stack of paperwork across the desk. “We just need you to go check on the setup, make sure Malfoy’s not skirting too close to the Statue. Make sure everything is hunky dory.” 

Harry feels himself frowning, which is not usually his response to hearing a phrase like ‘hunky dory’ in Kingsley’s rich baritone. He drums his fingers against the arm of his chair.  _ Malfoy _ . 

“Hmm. You think he might be up to something? Something untoward?” 

Kingsley heaves a sigh again, and again Harry isn’t quite sure it’s warranted. It’s Malfoy, surely that provokes some questions? 

“No, I do not,” Kingsley states firmly, pinning Harry with a withering look. “Draco Malfoy is a man of thirty-five, has not caused a peep of trouble in nearing twenty years, and we often contract him as a Rare Potions consultant for this department - you do remember that, don’t you? I know you’ve seen him around the Ministry a time or two. He’s literally on the payroll. I do not make a habit of employing people I suspect to be criminals, Harry - considering anti-crime is the point of our entire profession.” 

“Hmmm,” Harry allows, still frowning. 

Sure Harry’s seen Malfoy around the Ministry here and there, but he puts a lot of energy into ignoring that fact. 

And even more into ignoring how he doesn’t seem capable of ignoring it at all. 

“It’s standard procedure, Harry,” Kingsley tells him with yet another sigh. “When a wizard applies for muggle-ward requests of this magnitude we always send a detail to ensure compliance with code. Make sure everything went smoothly in the setup, that no major Obliviations will be required, that sort of thing. The wards he’s installed to allow for muggle technology to be used on the Manor grounds aren’t an overdone sort, but they’ll be up for quite a while - duration of filming will be a few months, if on the weekends only. You just need to pop over and make sure it’s secure. Ship shape. Tickety boo.”

Harry refrains from commenting on ‘tickety boo,’ but only just. He’s really only half-listening at this point, unable to help being preoccupied with the thought that -

“Still, what’s Malfoy doing inviting a bunch of muggles to the Manor? What’s Malfoy doing inviting a bunch of muggles anywhere?” He has to ask, “Why would he even want them around?” 

Kingsley doesn’t even bother with a sigh or a scowl this time, just shrugs, already reading through another case file. “From what I understand he just loves The Bake Off. Everyone loves The Bake Off.” 

“ _ Still _ . It’s Malfoy, innit? I mean he used to be a -” 

“This is why I didn’t want to ask you, Potter, but everyone else is dealing with a full caseload at the moment. You’re the only one who could spare the time,” Kingsley huffs irritably, though his attention is still on the paperwork before him. 

Harry takes the opportunity to become quite irritated himself. “I’m your Head Auror! I hardly think I’m unqualified to -” 

“It’s not your general competence I’m concerned with, Harry,” Kingsley interrupts him with a flip of his hand. “It’s your ability to retain that competence around Mr. Malfoy that niggles my doubts. I was there for that incident in the cafeteria, if you recall.” 

Harry feels his cheeks heat. “It wasn’t an  _ incident _ , I just - missed my mouth a bit. He startled me!” 

“He wasn’t even looking at you.” 

Harry just barely stops himself from voicing, ‘Yes, that’s what startled me.’ It’s true, though; Malfoy was so rarely not looking at him when they were in proximity. It was just - weird when he wasn’t. Which he wasn’t, that day. 

Additionally, Malfoy’s hairstyle on that particular afternoon had certainly contributed to Harry’s reaction - which, again, isn’t necessarily Harry’s fault. 

Malfoy had grown it out in the space of months since the last time Harry’d seen him, falling just past his jaw and requiring him to tuck it back behind an ear every so often, his long fingers with their black-painted nails reaching up absently to gently push - 

It was  _ different _ , is all. A change, significant somehow,  _ suspect _ you might even say - distracting, to say the very least, and Harry had - 

Anyway, the soup hadn’t even been that hot. Minor burns only. He’d barely shrieked. 

Harry surfaces from the slightly-painful memory to find Kinglsey staring at him with an expression that Harry can’t quite name, but that he certainly doesn’t like. 

“What?” 

Kingsley just grunts in reply, which Harry doesn’t find at all preferable to the sighing, really, and stands up, taking his stack of folders with him. He opens his office door and makes a sweeping gesture with the files to indicate that Harry should get a move on. 

“Just head over there, go through the items on the checklist, and get back here before either of you pulls out enough of the other’s hair to leave any noticeable bald spots,” Kingsley commands him, flapping the folders at him again. “We’re all getting too old for this. It stops growing back readily, you know.” 

“I can be professional,” Harry grouses, standing and smoothing down the front of his robes, trying not to take too much offense at the fact that he’s being herded out of his boss’ office like a particularly recalcitrant sheep. 

He isn’t being unreasonable - it’s not his fault if he and Malfoy have a history. 

The fact that nearly two decades likely qualifies it as long-lost history is quite besides the point. Probably. 

So Harry’s holding a bit of a grudge, so what - that’s likely not his fault either. Something to do with his star sign, or something. One or another of his moons, or whatever. 

Luna had read his chart recently and claimed that it explained a lot. 

“Quite,” Kingsley responds, though he manages to make the one word sound more incredulous than a person should be capable of achieving. 

“I can!” Harry swears as he marches out - only to march back in a few seconds later for his forgotten paperwork. And then again after that for his pen. 

Harry heads out for Wiltshire immediately thereafter, dropping his robes at his desk and heading for the Floo Center in his civvies. 

He can do this, and with grace. He can! 

Well, maybe not  _ grace _ . But certainly with decorum. He’s a seasoned Auror and a reasonably mature adult man, after all - he is fully capable of following protocol without his personal feelings interfering, be they grudges or - whatever else. 

Yes, Harry plans to get through this day unflappable and unscathed. 

He isn’t likely to come across any soup in this weather, at the least. Small mercies. 

“Malfoy Manor,” he announces as he steps into the grate, pleased that it only comes out more like an order than a whinge. 

He does spare a quick hope that Malfoy hasn’t done anything -  _ confusing _ to his hair lately. 

Irritating, perplexing git that he is, it would be like him to have done. Intended just to vex Harry personally - the insufferable git. And very blond. Very, very blond, almost silvery, and soft-looking - anyways, _ git _ . 

Git, git, git. 

The Ministry lobby fades from view with a sudden whoosh as the floo magic ushers Harry and his startled yelp along with it. 

\---

Harry is spit out of an elaborate fireplace large enough to roast an ox, in what appears to be a hallway. 

Who needs a mantelpiece this fancy in a hallway? Are those  _ rubies _ in that carved griffin’s eyes? It’s not even like anyone’s going to be looking at it. 

Which is probably for the best, really, since Harry’s shoulder had hit the jamb pretty hard when he fell out and knocked off a bit of marble - beak? Talon? Something pointy. 

“Oh, it’s  _ you _ .” A drawling, unmistakable voice comes from Harry’s left. 

“Uh, hey. Yeah. Wotcher.” 

Harry stands from his half-stumble, dusting at the front of his denims and trying to surreptitiously toe the broken bit of the mantle into the ancient hearth before Malfoy notices. 

Malfoy tracks the movement of Harry’s trainer with one raised brow, but says nothing. 

Well, at least not about the casual vandalism. 

He does say, “To what do I owe the distinct lack of pleasure of a visit from the Chosen One himself?” with a half-hearted sneer that Harry returns before he remembers what he is doing here, and why. 

He straightens his spine, trying to look commanding and - in command. 

“The department sent me. Official Auror business,” he intones seriously. Professionally. Not in the least bit goading. 

“If you’re here to arrest me you’re almost twenty years too late. Besides, I have company.” Malfoy shrugs, hands never leaving the pockets of his expensive-looking trousers. 

In addition to the trousers he’s wearing a thin but fuzzy-looking sweater and a pair of brown loafers. Harry stares at him for a moment, unaccustomed to seeing the man in anything but formal wizarding robes, before he remembers - the muggles. Malfoy must be trying to blend in with his guests. 

He does look very, er - blendy. Yeah. 

Which reminds Harry - 

“I’m just here to check up on the wards for your little event, show - thing. Whatever it is.” Bread? He clears his throat and uses his best Official Tone for Official Business, “You must have been expecting someone - it’s standard departmental procedure for wards of this type and caliber.” 

Malfoy blinks at him, still leaning casually on one hip against a little gilt table bearing a vase of giant purple flowers, looking all - casual. 

Hmmm. 

“That seems unnecessary,” Malfoy says after blinking at Harry a bit more. “Your Hermione invented these wards - and she installed these ones. I honestly think she’d be insulted if she knew you’d barreled your way in here to inspect her work.” He looks contemplative for a moment before musing, a bit smugly, “I think I’ll tell her that, actually.”

Harry feels the frown climbing its way up over his face. 

Still, he’d held out a few minutes - that’s likely a personal best. 

“I didn’t - I was sent here!” he repeats, feeling his hands clench at his sides. “It’s standard procedure, procedure which Hermione probably thought up herself when she - and when did you start calling her ‘Hermione’?” 

“This way, you dolt,” Malfoy sighs, jerking out of his comfortable lean and leading Harry down the hall and out a side door onto the grounds. 

Harry follows him, rushing a bit to keep up with Malfoy’s long strides over the grass. Christ, the man is leggy, isn’t he? Like some sort of great, pale stick insect. 

“We’re thirty-five, Potter,” Malfoy sighs at him again, sounding like he’s talking great pains to speak slowly and clearly, as if he’s conversing with a stubborn pet. “You do realize that, don’t you? It’s not 1998 anymore - though it does appear that someone forgot to tell your hair. Is that the last time you had it cut?” 

Harry ignores most of this, and refrains from commenting that he’s still thirty- _ four _ , thank you, and will be for three entire _ weeks _ more. It’s not like he needs to be discussing birthdays with Malfoy - not as if it’s something Malfoy should remember, or would even be likely to. It’s not like Harry remembers when his is. 

Except that it’s definitely the first week of June. 

“Yes, I am aware of our ages, you condescending prick,” Harry does respond, tetchily, unsure now whether he’s exasperated with Malfoy or himself. “So wh-” 

“So some of us have used the intervening twenty years to grow up!” Malfoy interrupts, finally sounding as irritated as Harry feels.  _ Ta _ . “It’s not my fault if you haven’t, and I don’t need to explain myself to you. Now go on and do whatever it is you are required to do here and get out of our hair. I know yours is likely very jealous, but there’s really no need for you stand there and growl at me like I’ve -” 

“Who’s this Draco?” 

They’re interrupted suddenly by the appearance of three people, all draped in an assortment of muggle gadgetry and grinning at Draco like they’re old friends. 

Harry blinks at them, then at the enormous, plastic-sided tent they seem to have come to a stop in front of. 

Where’d that come from? 

Harry can see a crowd of people scurrying about inside, as well as a staggering amount of technical equipment and cutesy, pastel-toned cottage decor; it looks like the lovechild of Mrs. Figg’s kitchen and a small power station. 

Surely that’s an unnecessary amount of teapots? 

Harry’s stopped short in his goggling when Malfoy responds to the woman who’d spoken, with a smile of his own and a light, genial tone Harry hadn’t known the man to be capable of. 

“Oh, just the copper hired to keep tabs on me,” Malfoy says airily, shrugging a shoulder toward Harry. “I was once a teenage criminal you see, before I heroically reformed myself into the dashing gentleman that stands before you. Anyway, Harry here is like one of those drug-sniffing dogs at the aeroport. He’s here to sniff me.” 

The three newcomers titter in appreciation of Malfoy’s ‘joke’ while Harry scowls; he’s a bit shocked at Malfoy’s candor, even if these muggles aren’t reading it as such. 

He’s also momentarily distracted by what he does smell, which is a rather nice combination of summer breeze, burnt sugar, and the spice of Malfoy’s usual cologne. 

He then spends a longer moment distracted by his apparent awareness of Malfoy’s  _ scent _ . 

Hmmm. 

“Who are you really?” the other woman is asking him now, in a polite if slightly confused voice that indicates it might not be the first time she’s asked Harry this question in the space of the last few minutes. 

Harry tries to focus. 

“Er - his cousin,” he offers. 

Malfoy rolls an eye at him and then shifts, all but blocking Harry from the developing circle of conversation. “So how’s everything coming, Tammi?” he asks the woman in the ball cap. “Any trouble with the power so far today?” 

“No, Draco, everything’s been tops this afternoon - no more flickering! Whatever hiccup that was seems to have worked itself out. We’re on track now for an easy first day of filming tomorrow.” 

“Excellent.” Malfoy beams at her, obviously pleased. 

Harry just stops himself from craning around Malfoy’s shoulder to get a better look at his face. He’s just not sure he’s ever seen Malfoy this - giddy. Excited? 

It’s strange, possibly shady. Yes, could be. 

Harry should definitely get a better look, for investigatory purposes. Indeed. 

“Lucky the first is never Bread Week,” Malfoy is saying now, still suspiciously pleasant, “This ghastly humidity - would wreak terrible havoc on the proofing.” 

Tammi seemingly makes sense of this gibberish and replies with some enthusiastic gibberish of her own - something about yeast and a thing called a ‘hollywood,’ which judging from her tone Harry supposes to be some sort of temperamental oven-related device. 

He sort of tunes out after that. 

He loses a few minutes pondering just what dastardly deeds Malfoy could be plotting by volunteering his estate for competitive bap-making, or whatever this is, refocusing just in time to catch a sweetly murmured ‘Nice to meet you, Harry’ from one of Malfoy’s new chums before the three others trundle back off into the giant tent.

Malfoy turns back to Harry with his pale brow scrunched up, affability gone. 

“Cousins?” he scoffs. “Merlin, Potter - how in the world did you pass your Auror certification? Aren’t you supposed to be professionally canny at subterfuge? You couldn’t think propped up in bed, let alone on your feet. Besides, we’re barely related.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Harry huffs back at him. Then, “Wait, what?” 

The notion is odd and uncomfortable in a way that Harry doesn’t really want to examine too closely. And in several other ways much more obvious and unpleasant, not the least of which is a desperate and specific nausea at the prospect of sharing any part of one’s family tree with Lucius Malfoy. Completely valid reaction, that. 

“Six-times removed, don’t fret yourself - we don’t share DNA or anything,” Malfoy adds, attention now fixed avidly on the comings and goings taking place in the tent. “Though anyone who’s taken more than a cursory look at the follicular disaster that resides on your head could likely work that out. Do you use the two-in-one shampoo or no shampoo at all? No - don’t answer. They do say mystery keeps the spark alive.” 

“Sod off. Not like your own is so great. All, you know - blond.” 

“Ouch.” 

Harry snorts at his deadpan delivery and sees Malfoy dart a quick look at him. Possibly an amused look. 

Hmmm. 

Harry resists asking how Malfoy knows about DNA, as he’s beginning to suspect that he knows less about this Malfoy than Malfoy does about - lots of things, apparently. Bread-related weather anomalies being one of them. 

“So why all this?” he finds himself asking. “What’s in it for you?” 

“Oh, you know, just the lovely opportunity to torture and maim a group of unsuspecting muggles after I lull them into a false sense of security with electricity access and perfectly level lawns of adequate drainage. That’s what you came here suspecting, isn’t it?” 

“Er, didn’t anticipate the drainage needs, no,” Harry admits, surprising himself by feeling a bit guilty at Malfoy’s tired, unsurprised tone. 

Malfoy snorts himself at this, then sighs and says, “They are paying me rent for the space, of course. Is that not reason enough?”

“We both know you don’t need the money, Malfoy. Really - why?” 

Malfoy shrugs, his hands returned to his pockets. 

“It’s The Bake Off,” he states simply, and Harry can see a smidge of red coloring the tips of his ears. 

“Why does everyone keep saying it like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Like it’s some sort of compulsory institution.” 

“It is!” 

“Then why hadn’t I heard of it ‘til this morning?” 

“I dunno, because you’re too busy battling with your haircut for dominance that you don’t have a single spare moment? Are you telling me you’ve never seen The Bake Off?” 

“Stop saying it in capitals! No, I haven’t - how is it that  _ you _ have? Are you telling me the Manor has a muggle television?” 

“Of course it does!” 

“Since when?” 

“Since just after the war!” 

“What, really?” Harry asks, truly interested now. 

“Yes, if you must know. I installed it to annoy my father. Well that - and the boredom. There wasn’t a great lot to do then, being a disgraced young wizard on house arrest. I have a fair amount to keep me busy these days, but I still keep up with certain programs. Surely that isn’t as dubious as you’re making it out to be.” 

“No, it’s - I - it’s er, perfectly reasonable.” 

Harry stumbles a bit over his words, caught on the thought of teenage Malfoy trapped in the foreboding old house, the darkness of its most recent occupants still lingering in all the corners; caught on the reality of what had ultimately freed Malfoy from it, which was the testimony Harry had given himself, at Malfoy’s trial. He pushes the thought away, unsettled. 

“I just - what’s so special about ‘The Bake Off,’” he manages, adding air quotes and making Malfoy roll his eyes. 

Harry rolls them right back, looking keenly into Malfoy’s face - oddly eager to figure out if that’s enough to make the man answer. 

Malfoy stares back for a moment, then looks away and shrugs. 

“Baking is an interest of mine,” he explains succinctly, then elaborates, unprompted, “It’s a mixture of science and artistry - exacting but creative. A bit like potions, with lower stakes. Comforting way to pass the time, I suppose. Besides, I’ve a sweet tooth.” 

Harry cannot say ‘I know, I spent six-years-worth of school meals staring at you,’ because that would be - well. 

So instead he says, with perhaps a bit too much emphasis, “Really?” 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, really. What, d’you think I eat nothing but vinegar and ice chips? Things to match my sour, unpleasant disposition?” 

Harry snorts and manages the rejoinder, “I was thinking cabbages, actually - the smell.” 

Malfoy reaches out to shove roughly at his shoulder, but there’s a half-smile tucked into one corner of his thin lips. Harry can feel a full smile creasing his own. 

Hmmm. 

He shoves back at Malfoy to distract himself from his own confusion and a bit of a scuffle ensues. It does help, slightly. 

Malfoy stumbles back after Harry gets a good elbow into his skinny ribs, his own smarting from a particularly violent poke from someone’s very bony fingers. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry Potter,” Malfoy pants, looking flustered but only the slightest bit tousled, his hair come untucked from behind his left ear. 

Something about that makes Harry’s fingers itch. 

“What is it about you that drives me to absolute - I was the one appealing to our maturity a few moments ago, was I not? And yet here I am, engaging in a pre-pubescent style slap-fight,” Malfoy grouses, straightening his collar with a tug, speaking low as if mostly to himself. “You just - listen, can you just go about and gather all your little ticks for Ye Most Official and Mighty Auror Clipboard and get the bloody hell out of here? I’ve things to do that do not involve tussling about like grumpy adolescents.” 

“I - I don’t - sod off!” Harry shouts back. “And those ‘things’ better be completely legal and above board, Malfoy, or so help me I will -” 

“Yes, thank you for reminding me what it is about you that’s more exhausting than the immaturity!” Malfoy throws up his hands. “Go on with your little scavenger hunt, you insufferable pillock - and when you  _ do _ find all the nefarious and vile activity I am covertly peppering in amongst the ladyfingers and deflated choux, make sure to arrest me without magic, as to not startle the muggles. I’m sure you can fashion adequate manacles out of a tea cosy and some piping bags!” 

Harry folds his arms across his chest and grits out, “Look, Malfoy, if you don’t fancy being treated as a criminal perhaps you shouldn’t have been one!” 

“Oh, fuck  _ off! _ ” 

“You first!” 

“I live here!” 

“That’s true!” 

Harry huffs a final huff and storms off to the other side of the tent, throwing up a wandless disillusionment charm around himself so he can begin the ward checks without any of the crew poking their noses in. Or, you know, seeing him wave a stick around. 

He prowls around the tent, throwing spells wherever he feels. 

Sodding Malfoy - acting like Harry’s attitude wasn’t completely warranted! 

Acting as if he hadn’t ever - and what do ladies fingers and shoes have to do with anything? What sort of competition is this going to  _ be _ ? 

Harry finds nothing off about the wards, though he checks them three times over. 

Maybe four times; he’s just being thorough. It’s completely within his rights as an inspector - surely Malfoy’s violently incensed reaction to Harry’s perfectly professional questions is an indication that something could very well be afoot? 

In fact, Malfoy is so adamant about not being guilty of anything that Harry has no choice but to think him guilty of everything - it’s just good sense. 

And if Harry is already planning on returning the following weekend of filming, just to make sure the lack of evidence remains lacking? Well, that would be good sense too. 

Absolutely. 

Anyhow, that’s week one. 

\---

The second week Harry spends exactly twenty minutes arguing with himself about not going back to the Manor before he finds himself - back at the Manor. 

Malfoy succeeds in ignoring his presence for roughly thirty seconds before giving in, and the two of them hiss at one another halfheartedly until they are shushed by several irritated-looking persons wearing headphones.

They’re filming inside the tent, a flurry of activity and talk and smells. Harry and Malfoy stand in a little knot of people at the front of it, watching a series of monitors and tensing up anytime their elbows graze. 

They do manage to hold their tongues, for the most part. 

Malfoy stalks away at one point, starting up an ebullient-seeming conversation with two of the women who keep popping up on camera. 

Harry avoids watching him for a few seconds, in deference to Malfoy’s absurd claims that Harry’s acting like an unnecessary watchdog, before realizing that his suspicions about Malfoy are entirely his pretense for being here in the first place - and no, not pretense, completely sound and realistic accusations they are, if not completely based in actual, realistic fact - the end result of which is that Harry darts his eyes toward and away from Malfoy so many times during the internal argument that he makes himself a bit dizzy. 

And, judging by her very wary expression, convincing the assistant standing near him that he’s about to have some kind of fit. 

Malfoy returns to the spot beside him suddenly, thrusting something at Harry and making him jump before he looks down and realizes it’s - a biscuit. 

Brown and crunchy-looking. 

Harry takes it from him and ventures a small bite. He has been getting a bit peckish, what with all the lovely aromas circulating and all the snarky Malfoy-centric comments gone suppressed. 

It’s a lovely thing, the biscuit - crumbly and dry with a subtle kick of spice. Something clean about the flavor at the back end. Could that be fennel? 

Harry finds himself nodding in appreciation at Malfoy, who has just taken a dainty bite of his own, a few stray crumbs sticking to the corner of his mouth. 

Harry’s eyes track them while Malfoy nods back. 

In unison the two of them turn back to the block of screens, spending the next little while munching contentedly in mutual silence. 

Harry returns to the Ministry not long after. 

\---

Week three Harry arrives to find a beautiful little cake on the tech table. It’s simple, but elegant - clearly meant to be enjoyed. 

Malfoy greets him by cutting a slice and handing it over on a tiny paper plate. Harry tucks in without hesitation, jumping back out of the way with the fork halfway to his mouth as a woman barrels past him with an enormous bag of flour. 

“I thought week one was the cakes?” he asks Malfoy around a mouthful of chocolate icing. 

Malfoy shrugs, a little half-aborted gesture, and says, “Must be someone’s birthday.” 

Harry doesn’t say ‘It was mine yesterday’ because the blush that starts splotching Malfoy’s fair cheeks tells him that the man already knows. 

Hmmm. 

“Er,” Harry says instead. Witty and eloquent, if he does say so himself. 

“Eat your cake, Potter,” Malfoy says back, still blushing. 

They don’t speak much after that. 

\---

Week four Harry gets laid off. 

Well, not actually. But the threat is heavily implied. 

Kinglsey stops him on his way out of the department with hard frown and an even harder stare. 

“Where are you going?”

“Er - the Manor,” Harry admits, trying to shuffle sideways past Kingsley’s imposing form. “Um, I’m not entirely convinced that the -” 

Harry is cut off by Kingsley’s heaved sigh, one so heavy Harry feels his fringe flutter with the gust of air. 

“Just so we’re on the same page, Potter - this is entirely your opinion and the department does not endorse it.” Kingsley gives him a long searching look that makes Harry want to squirm. “Any more time you spend there is off the clock, you understand? You can go ahead and pretend that you are there in an official capacity, or whatever else you need to tell yourself, but  _ officially _ that’s not what’s happening.” 

Harry tries very hard to look like someone who has just had his expert judgement called into question, and less like someone who has had his plausible deniability squandered right in front of his nose. And his coworkers. 

He doubts he manages it. 

Crap. 

“Er. Okay. Fine, yeah,” he manages, finding it difficult to hold Kingsley’s eye. 

“Just - sort yourselves out, the both of you,” Kingsley adds after a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers like he’s got a headache. “And if Mr. Malfoy calls again I’m not going to lie about you being there of your personal volition.” 

“He called? What did he say?” Harry blurts before he can stop himself. 

Double crap. 

Harry finds the headache is catching. 

“Merlin - I should really floo Minerva, ask her if she wants to get a drink and commiserate.” Kingsley sighs again, seemingly to himself. “ _ Youths _ . Go on, Potter - off with you.” 

Harry debates not going. He really does. 

He goes. 

\---

Week five the flirting begins. 

Harry shocks himself by being shocked. Surely he shouldn’t be so thrown by it? 

And he isn’t, really. He’s not  _ anything  _ by it. He isn’t even involved. 

It’s between Malfoy and - some guy. One of the contestants, as it were. 

Harry watches them talking, surprised, gets surprised by his surprise, snacks on some rather sad pita bread, and then watches them some more. 

It’s definitely Malfoy, and it’s definitely flirting, and it’s definitely with  _ a guy _ \- who definitely looks a little bit like Harry, doesn’t he? 

They’re both brown, scruffy, a bit on the shorter side. It’s - something. 

So this bloke might be a little bit more fit than Harry. Okay, a  _ lot _ more fit. He’s doe-eyed where Harry is more deer-in-the-headlights - which may sound very similar but Harry has enough self-awareness to know that it’s not really. Still, there’s a resemblance. 

It’s a thing. 

It’s definitely a thing. Harry isn’t sure what kind of thing it is, but it is one. 

Harry heads back to the Ministry a bit earlier that day, but not before starting a nice little row with Malfoy on his way out. 

Needs must. 

\---

Week six starts with a row and just sort of keeps barreling on into one. 

Harry’s forgotten what the shouting started with, but they’re still going, moving steadily further away from the tent and the shushing and the ‘for fuck’s sake you two, get out of the shot’s and closer to the Manor. 

And by closer Harry means inside. 

Malfoy pushes him through one doorway and then another, grumbling meanly, “Not my fault you couldn’t tell a genoise from a jacquond -” 

“Who? Look, I’m not good at remembering names, alright?” Harry growls back. “I have, what’s it called - face blindness.” 

Malfoy presses a hand hard against his temple, eyes shut tight like he’s having a stroke. 

“You are so - why do I even! Eugh!” he huffs, throwing up his arms and stomping sideways through an archway into a room which turns out to be the kitchen. 

Harry clomps after him, hoping he’s leaving mud or bits of grass all over the pristine tiles. The entire room is pristine, actually - clean and scrupulously tidy. Not a wayward crumb in sight, nor any sign of the kind of muggle equipment Harry’s been seeing down in the tent. 

The whole place looks unused, really, and the only surfaces available are elf-height; Harry can feel elf magic singing off every sparkling surface. 

He looks around for a moment before rounding on Malfoy with an accusatory finger. 

“You don’t _ bake! _ ” 

Malfoy manages to look shamefaced for a grand total of two seconds before exasperation wins out. 

“Of course I don’t bake, Potter!” he grouches, crossing his arms over his chest. “I barely know how to make toast! One can have an interest in something without being good or remotely competent at it - look at you and Quidditch. I am allowed to have passions that remain theoretical in practical applications!” 

Harry frowns, wondering where to start with any of this and deciding on, “I was the youngest Seeker -” 

“Ugh!” Malfoy groans and throws up his hands again. The gesture is becoming a bit habitual, Harry’s noticed. “Yes! We know! You’re proficient at everything! Goddamn golden boy and his goddamn golden touch - I’m Harry Potter and the only think I fuck up is staying dead! For  _ fuck’s _ sake, it’d be absolutely fucking infuriating if it weren’t so bloody hot! Scratch that, you know what? It’s both. It’s both!” 

Harry takes a moment to process this. He’s feeling suddenly blank. 

Well. 

“You think I’m hot?” 

Malfoy rounds on him. “Merlin’s knickers, I want to strangle you. Is that the only word in my diatribe that got through your stupid head? You sexy, tousled, stupid head?”

“Sexy?” 

“Potter. How many times does someone have to begrudgingly come on to you before you get the fucking Erumpent-sized hint?” 

Harry often finds honesty to be the best policy. “Er, perhaps one more time. I’m still kind of lost in the weeds of insults and disparaging comments - do you actually want me to snog you?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely you great, terrible imbecile.” 

Harry stops feeling blank and returns to feeling irritated. Irritated and - possibly something else. “Okay, Jesus, maybe if you calmed down and shut up for once in your spoiled, fussy life I’d be able to finish enough of a thought to figure out if _ I  _ want to.”

“That statement might hold weight if your hands weren’t already down the back of my trousers.” 

“Oh.” When had that happened? “Sorry d’you not want -” 

“Move them and lose them, Potter. And I don’t bloody care if I don’t even know how to turn on the oven, I will figure out how to roll them into a bap and then force feed them to your entire ginger family.” 

“You’re really shit at flirting, you know that? Practically repellent.” 

“And yet here we are dry humping in my tragically underused kitchen. Are we going to touch on how alluring your penchant for stalking isn’t? Because you showing up here with your flimsy excuse for a warrant didn’t exactly enter you into the annals of successful seduction -” 

“It wasn’t a warrant, it was a departmental standard for ward -” 

“Morgana’s tits will you please  _ shut up _ -” 

“You first!” 

They do manage it, somehow. 

\---

Week seven is also spent at the Manor, but to assert Harry’s presence there is in anything remotely close to an ‘official capacity’ would be casting some interesting claims on what the office of an Auror entails. 

He certainly won’t be filing any paperwork about it. 

\---

Week eight Harry has a question. 

“So you haven’t even  _ tried _ to bake anything? Some of that stuff doesn’t even look too hard.” 

“No. Absolutely not. Potter if you even think for one second about picking up a whisk as a lark I will break both your arms. With my luck you’d go from zero to souffle and I’d actually have to kill you.” 

“No you wouldn’t - you’d love it,” Harry pokes Draco in the ribs, right above his only freckle. “I’d be whipping up a perfectly airy chiboust and you’d fall all over yourself in lust. Don’t kid yourself.” 

“How do you know that word? You shouldn’t know that word. Oh gods, it’s starting already isn’t it - you’re going to learn how to manage egg whites just to spite me, you vile animal. And yet my libido responds. I’m beginning to think I’m touched in the head.” 

“You? These days my boner is hardwired to your condescension. Practically Pavlovian.” 

“Yes, well, you have the excuse of being very uncultured. Also I’m extremely attractive - why wouldn’t you want me?” 

Harry fluffs the pillow under his head and burrows closer against Draco’s side. “I take it back - maybe I have a brain injury or something. There’s no way my boners have anything to do with you.” 

“So it’s mutual. We’re communally concussed.” Draco tosses an arm over Harry’s side and tugs him in. 

“Not our fault.” 

“Hardly.” 

\--- 

Week nine Harry has even more questions, and quite a few comments, and even more completely non-verbal inclinations, but Malfoy is ignoring him. 

“It’s the semi-finals, Harry! I’m going down to watch and there’s nothing you can do to - stop that!” 

“I’m barely doing anything! You’re the one who -” 

“The semi-finals! And if you make a pun right now with the word ‘semi’ so help me Morgana I will break it off.” 

“You will not.” 

“No, I won’t - I won’t be touching it at all. I’m going down to the tent -  _ semi-finals! _ ” 

“You do realize we could just watch it on the tv in a few weeks, right?” 

“A few  _ weeks _ ? Are you mental?” 

“Are you? Draco, it’s just -” 

“It’s _ chocolate _ , Harry! Chocolate!” 

“Christ. You’re lucky you’re fit.” 

“Likewise, you boring, messy arse.”

“I’m not boring just ‘cause I don’t share your obsessions exactly, you complete nutter.” 

“Not my fault you’re the only one in the country without any taste. Knob.” 

“Tosser.” 

“Pillock.” 

“Berk. I thought you were leaving?” 

“I am.” 

“Oh, really? Gunna take that with you down to the tent?”

“I could.”

“Not unless you want to give everyone an eyeful - what would Mary say?”

“I think she’d consider it a tad informal, but a little bit of alright.” 

“Little? It’s bigger than -” 

“Potter, are you trying to get me to stop?” 

“...No.” 

“Then shut up and turn over.” 

“...” 

“What?” 

“I want to make a pun about ‘overworked buns’ but I’m worried about killing the mood.” 

“You really are just - the Absolute Worst. Bar none. I’m really leaving now.” 

“Proof it.” 

“I hate you.” 

“And  _ yet _ .” 

“And yet.” 

\---

Week ten a very lovely lady wins a fancy plate, Harry catches Malfoy tearing up, and the two of them stay up all night trying to bake shortbread, arguing, and - stuff. Other stuff. 

It’s more difficult than expected to get butter out of - places. 

Not that a long, companionable shower is anything to complain about. 

\---

Harry goes back to the office as usual on Monday. 

He brings a tin of shortbread for Kingsley - figures he owes him that much, at the least. Likely a great deal more. 

Perhaps they’ll practice cakes next. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
